17
by Riza Winters
Summary: A few glimpses into the life of a teenage hunter, back when Dean was taller than his younger brother and he followed his father's every order without question. We follow Dean through his tumultuous seventeenth year as he confronts many different challenges, including sex, love, his father's harsh rule, torture, fear and of course, high school.
1. LOST

_**AN: The first in the series "17." This series will include several stories of Dean's life at 17, sometimes with John, Bobby, Sam or alone. Some will be dark, others light, other just action/adventure. Some stories will be more than one chapter, others will be like oneshots, like this one! Hope you enjoy!**_

* * *

**Lost**

Dean dropped more wood onto the fire and the sparks shot up into the night sky. He rubbed his hands together even though they were protected in thick wool mittens—it was freezing. The smoke twisted in a thin dark trail above the flames and became lost in the brilliant sea of stars that mapped the heavens above.

"What the hell good are you anyhow!" He suddenly let out his raw frustration on the night sky. "How am I suppose to get the Hell out of here?!"

He was lost. It was the one thing his father had said to him on their way in. No matter what, don't get lost. Four hundred acres of dense, unmarked forest in the dead of winter—getting lost was as dangerous as finding the thing they were hunting.

Now Dean faced both. He was totally alone and that thing, as far as he knew, was still out there.

The reason he wasn't sure was the same reason he was lost. He'd climbed a tree on his father's instruction, to check what the scrap of fabric was they'd seen floating in the leaves a few feet up. Before he'd ever gotten that far, however, claws were in his backpack and he was falling five feet from tree into the rock hard ground. If that wasn't enough, they had landed on the edge of a bank and the creature had of course made sure they went over. Somewhere in the painful process of crashing down the rock and root strewn frozen ground, the monster had been dislodged and all Dean could guess was it had crawled off somewhere else. He, meanwhile, had continued his descent until he was well and truly lost. He'd been dizzy and disoriented when he'd finally stopped and that was probably how he'd managed to lose all concept of where they'd come from. Then night had fallen, he'd passed out against a tree when a concussion finally caught up with him and when he woke up it was snowing.

It had not been a very good birthday.

At least he'd made it to seventeen, he thought. Since becoming a hunter he did have a significantly reduced life expectancy but he'd at least like to make it to legal drinking age. And he definitely didn't want to go out frozen in the middle of no where.

He hadn't even gotten laid yet.

"First thing on my to do list when I get out of here." He muttered and stoked his fire that looked dangerously close to going out. It had taken him half the night to make it and he needed its heat. He felt his eyes sagging but shook himself. He needed to keep his guard up, who knew when he might be attacked again or his father might call for him. He took a clump of snow and held it up to his head and the source of his concussion and head ache. After, he scooped some into his bottle and kept it close enough to the flames to melt. It was refreshing and helped him stay alert.

Something snapped in the trees. His eyes returned to the phantom landscape surrounding him. He felt like he was in a cage, walls of darkness trapping him like a moth to flame. Slender tree trunks ringed him like iron bars, and here and there dappled shadows on the snow seemed to shift and move and he couldn't trust his own eyes to tell him what was real and what wasn't.

It was the closest he'd felt to fear in a very long time.

"Come on Dean snap out of it, you ain't afraid of the dark."

There was more snapping and he heard the crunch of snow. "On the other hand you have every reason to be afraid of the dark because you know what's in it!" He stood and crouched, pulling out his hunting knife. Unfortunately his gun had fallen from him in his descent and he was left with this as his only defence.

"Come on, where are you?"  
At his shout he heard thundering feet. He saw the shadow of two or three creatures gallop through the twisting trees and out of his range of sight.

"Deer...great Dean you're shouting at bambi now."

He sighed and sat back on the log he'd built his camp around. It was easier than finding something else to sit on and drag it to his fire. The log was actually very big and wide and he was hoping to be able to sleep on it if it came down to it. He had no sleeping bag and his best plan was to keep himself out of the snow. He didn't know much about winter survival skills in the woods but he guessed not getting damp and chilled was probably a good start.

He pulled his hat down tighter. A steady wind had started, threatening his fire even more, but worse, whistling through the trees in a such a way he could no longer listen for approaching danger. He wanted to pull his hood up but it cut off too much of his vision and sound.

"Dammit." He swore and rubbed his hands together more. He had a heavy coat but only jeans to protect his legs and he the denim was stiff where it had gotten wet in his violent descent down the hill.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Dean woke to a spray of snow and the hiss of his fire going out. He blinked in the sudden darkness and sat sharply, drawing his knife from his side.

"Bastard." He was already cursing when he came to his feet but another sharp spray of snow told him he was cursing at nothing but the wind—that wind however was burning his skin and making him blink furiously. "Shit." He had no choice to pull his hood up now. His held his mittens up to his face but felt nothing. "Crap." He cursed again and rubbed his cheeks, still feeling nothing. It took several second of furious rubbing to get feeling back and when he did his skin burned and hurt. He forced himself to move around and get the blood flowing. It was pitch black now, the moon covered by clouds and he thought it was snowing again though it was possible that the wind was simply blowing the sharp crystals from the ground. Another gust had him cover his eyes almost completely. In the dark snowstorm he couldn't tell where he was, his ankle connected with the log he'd fallen asleep against and he ended up sprawled in the snow.

"Ugh." The log was his only point of reference and his best shelter. He rolled against it and found relief from the wind but now he was pressed into the cold snow covering the ground.

He didn't know what to do. He hadn't felt so alone in a long time, laying there as good as blind and deaf in the dark. His head still throbbed from the blow he'd taken in his fall. He felt the cold spreading through him but it was a slower, less painful cold than the stinging, driving snow. He didn't know enough about such conditions to know what he should do.

He was screwed.

* * *

The dawn grew grey in the sky, but it barely made a difference below the curtain of evergreens, now coated in a thick snow. The temperature must have risen, because now rather than crisp, powdery snow, he found his foot sinking into a layer of crusted, gummy snow that drug his every step and slowed him. Here and there through the forest, great clouds of smokey snow suddenly bloomed as it slipped from its purchase in the branches and fell down to the forest. Dean couldn't imagine how much snow had actually fallen in order to penetrate the density of the trees. He stopped for a breather. He'd started walking as soon as he could see further than his hand. He'd laid in the shelter of the log for over two hours, knowing if he fell asleep it could very well be the end of him. It had taken most of his will power to force his frozen limbs into moving again. His legs were the stiffest part of him, but everything hurt and he felt all the bruises from rolling down the hill.

He dropped his bag onto the ground and slipped his hand from his mitten to retrieve his water bottle. He didn't hesitate between tasks and quickly got his hand covered again, sucking back water for dear life. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he started drinking. He considered rationing his food but then figured it would do him no good to slowly grow weaker until he was easy prey for the creature, so he ate a full protein bar as his breakfast, leaving him two more. He sincerely hoped he was out of this forest by night fall.

He moved forward again, doing his best to continue in a straight line. He planned to find his father, but if he didn't, he'd need to get out of this place, so as long as he kept moving in the same direction, he should come out the other side.

Or at least he hoped it worked that way.

He scraped his knife into a few trees, in case his father found it or something happened and he got turned around. He wanted to call out to John, but he also didn't want to draw the creature towards himself. The morning slid by slowly as he made no progress on any front other than moving forward. He found it slow going however, between the rough terrain and clumping snow. He felt exhausted by noon, but didn't slow down in case he couldn't get going again.

He only stopped when he perceived that he was being followed.

It was in the trees. He never looked but he could tell it was more than just the breeze shaking snow from the upper branches. He heard it skitter from tree to tree, breaking branches and sending pine needles to earth. This gave him pause—he and his father had been banking on it being a wendigo, but such creatures were experts in the hunt. They moved with agility that would hardly shake a leaf and speed so fast a humans should stand no chance.

So why was this one giving away his position so easily? Was it a trap?

He kept moving, not sure what else to do. He pulled his mitten from his hand and gripped his blade inside his pocket, ready to strike as soon as necessary.

It took an hour for it to work its way close enough to attack. By that point Dean was so on edge he was wound as tightly as a coil. He felt it jumping between trees right above him, he heard its claws against the bark.

He turned and met the force that vaulted on him. He had no chance of staying upright but he rolled with the attack and brought his blade down on the grey skinned creature. There was a wailing shriek of pain but the blade came away and Dean knew he hadn't done enough damage. Then it was his turn and his whole face turned to fire on one side. He tasted blood at once and in seconds his left eye was blocked by a slew. It had raked him clean across the face. Both let go of the other and they tumbled separately in the snow. Dean spun up and raised his blade but the creature didn't attack immediately. He saw its hand against its side from the wound he'd just inflicted but he also noted its limp. So that explained why it was so hesitant to attack and so noisy—it must have been injured when they'd fallen.

Dean took a menacing step forward. It skittered back again. Dean waited, watching, knowing that few people had ever seen a living wendigo this clearly, even if he could only see it with one eye. It looked more human than he expected, and its body was almost emaciated. He wasn't sure that was normal. But its eyes were dark and its teeth canine sharp, there was no mistaking this was a creature of the supernatural kind.

"Let's finish this." He made his move, hoping it was too hurt to fight back. He was wrong. It jumped onto the tree behind it and used the trunk to push off and launch itself with more force at Dean. They hit the ground again, Dean landing on his back and it took everything he had to keep the creature from his neck. He brought up a knee but it had gotten a grip on his wrists and he couldn't dislodge it.

"Get off!" He slid his hand free of one mitten and also free of the creature, though at a cost. Hot lines burned down his wrist and hand from its claws but he formed a fist and drove it into the wound in the wendigo's side.

It screamed again and rolled off but a flailing kick caught him in the chest and winded him. Dean gagged on the emptiness in his lungs for a second and knew he was probably dead, but then he heard the breaking branches and realized the creature had fled—for now. He lay gasping for several seconds before finding the strength to get up. The brief frenzy had drained him after half a day of walking and he took a long time to catch his breath and get moving again. His minimal medical supplies were just enough to staunch the blood on his wrist and face. He hoped the jagged cuts on his cheek wouldn't scar. He knew he was in trouble when he went to put his hand in his mitten and it barely squeezed in—it was terribly swollen.

"Crap," he muttered, slugging back more water before continuing on. He didn't stop until darkness began to creep in on the forest once more. Despair washed through him. He couldn't believe he hadn't come to any sort of landmark yet. And where was his father? If he was tracking the wendigo and the wendigo was tracking Dean then shouldn't he be able to find them? Unless the creature had already gotten to him. But that thought didn't stick in Dean's mind for very long, because if he was still alive, then there was no way his father would have been taken down by that beast.

He gave up walking when he darkness really began to settle in around him. Then he worked fast with his one and a half hands to get a fire going before dark. wendigos did not like fire. It was his best chance at surviving the night. Fortunately he had a lighter to get him going and soon he had a sizable pit of flames to keep the creature at bay. Then he began work. There would no sleep tonight, knowing he was being hunted, and after their encounter today, Dean knew he needed something more to defend himself. So he pulled out his knife and thought of a classic Schwartzenager film as he began carving pointed spears.

* * *

"Come at me you freak!" Dean challenged the night. He'd been working for six hours, creating stake after stake. He had them all around his fire pit and several right next to him, point in the earth and handle up so he could grab them in seconds. He had used one of the straps of his back pack to tie the knife to his swollen hand that could no longer grip the weapon. Now he rotated on the spot, following the sound of the beast in the trees above. Night time was its strongest time, but it hated fire. As long as he stayed close to the flames he should be alright, but if it somehow manage to drive him into the dark he'd be blind and he'd be dead in seconds.

"COME ON ALREADY!"

His shout echoed off the trees, then there was a shriek in response. Dean crouched, at the ready.

Then everything went dark.

It was smart, and it had outsmarted him. His fire was doused in an instant under the great lump of snow that fell from high above. Then Dean heard the rush of air and knew it was almost on him.

His first spear was whacked away but his left hand came up fast and the blade cut into the hand that reached to maim or strangle him. He grabbed the next closest spear and swung it around himself, hoping to connect with flesh. He succeeded but only the blunt round edge hit the beast doing him no harm. It quickly pulled back on the spear to unbalance Dean. The teen let go and dropped low, and only by chance missed the next strike.

"Ha ha!" He laughed in the rush of adrenaline and the pulse of panic that mixed inside him. "I ain't going down that easy." He grabbed another weapon and held it closer to his body this time. He had just a slice of moonlight that filtered through the fir and spruce, just enough to gleam off grey flesh and hollow eyes and show him the enemy.

"Maybe you should run away," he challenged, though he'd rather end this now. "Do you even understand what I'm saying?"

He got a hiss in response and it pounced on him. He tried to skewer it, but it moved too quickly and a hand or foot got him in the gut—no claws but enough to send him to his knees. Another blow had him see sparks and his face connected with the cold ground. Everything was moving slowly now. He heard the creature make a low noise, almost like a chuckle of triumph.

It lunged. Dean rolled over and drove his knife straight up.

Hot blood washed over his inflamed hand. He didn't want to think about the fact its blood was getting into his own wounds. He could smell its decaying odour, feel its rank breath. He almost gagged, but it still wriggled and writhed against him and he knew it wasn't over. It shoved against him and fell free. Blood gushed from its chest. He saw the gaping wound that should have killed it on the spot, but still it stood and staggered away. wendigos couldn't be killed so easily, it took fire to end them, but unfortunately his had been doused.

He sat up and watched it roll in pain. It seemed to consider him for a moment, then it got a grip on a tree and he knew it was retreating for now.

He watched it for as long as possible, then he felt the weight of his exhaustion mingle with the new blow to his head.

He passed out.

* * *

"Dad!" There was no point trying to hide his presence. The wendigo was tracking him and he knew it. "DAD!" He was going hoarse and using up too much energy and water. He gave it a break, his head pounding even worse than when he'd first woken.

"Oh crap." He grabbed a tree and waited for the nausea to pass. He couldn't take anymore hits to the head. He straightened, using his spear as a walking stick. He had two other wedged between his back and his pack but he'd had to abandon the others. He was desperate to find the other side of the woods, back to civilization where there was indoor plumbing and cheese burgers.

To make matters worse his eye had swollen shut. Just like his hand his face was puffed up from the first attack and he could only hope the infection wouldn't spread to the rest of his system and make him sick on top of everything else.

When he heard a distant roar, he picked up his pace, sure it had to be a sign of life. But as he got closer, he felt his heart sink in terrible dread.

It was a river. It was _the_ river: the one landmark that had cut through the map his father had shown him—right through the middle of the forest.

His knees gave. He'd thought he was moving away from it, back toward a main road. But all this time he'd only succeeded in getting deeper into the forest, more lost, more alone.

He just remained as he was, facing the rushing wash of yellow spray and white foam, a churning beast that would eat him alive if he dared try to cross it.

"Dammit!" He cursed his misfortune, his stupidity and the very land itself for daring to be formed this way. He forced himself to breathe and remain calm. This meant one good thing: now he had a guide. He could at least start moving up or down the river and be certain to make his way out of the forest that way. But he had no idea which end of the forest he was closest to. Maybe he was within an hour's walk of the road if he went up river, or maybe he was three days away. He had no idea how to choose which direction to go.

So he stopped moving. He gave up on his plans to stumbled out this place by chance.

He had to make a stand, and here was as good a place as any.

"Alright you asshole." He drove his spear into the ground and got back to his feet. "We end this today. One of us is going down before tomorrow.

He waited. He heard the now familiar hiss. He smiled.

* * *

It came at dusk. Dean had heard it skittering around the trees at the river's edge for hours. It was trying to psych him out, to make him mess up, or maybe wait for him to get in range of the trees where it could more easily pounce on him. But he held firm at the edge of the water. There was a rocky shore, the air was open, the trees were about ten feet back giving him plenty of room to see it coming.

He had a fire but it was dwindling. He knew that the creature was likely waiting for it to go out. He couldn't go back into the woods to get more fuel, so it hovered in wait. He was banking on that however. It gave him a time limit and he knew just when the wendigo would strike. His plan was set. He held out a stake, but he had another one wedged between two rocks, on which his mitten was perched soaked in his lighter fluid. In his pocket, he had the lighter itself, just enough juice left to make a spark.

It all had to be done perfectly.

The flames flickered in their last life. Dean crouched low and took his stance. His knife was still held in place around his other hand. He watched the bank with his one working eye.

It came.

It was as much of a wreck as he was, and Dean thought he saw in its eyes a look similar to his own—as if the creature knew as much as Dean how evenly they were matched, how this was their final battle. It was more than survival at stake—it was his pride as a hunter and a human. The creature came closer, sharp features caught in the moonlight, and he thought he saw it smile.

His stake snapped at once and he barely avoided being stabbed with his own weapon when the wendigo threw it back at him. He heard a hollow plop in the rushing waters and knew the spear had been consumed. He thought he was safe enough from being thrown in—the creature would lose its meal to the river—although another part of Dean warned him it might just be satisfied with killing him now.

They danced at the edge of danger, much like boxers in a ring, bobbing and weaving in anticipation of each other's moves. Dean caught a glancing blow to his jaw but rolled with it and came up sharply with his knife. It tore through the wendigo's palm. It didn't even react, hurtling itself forward again. Dean felt his jacket rip open and a sudden wash of cold struck his chest—it had torn through his coat and his shirt.

"Crap." He suddenly found his one protection from the cold hanging lose and in his way. He dodged another swipe but when he came up to defend himself the beast caught the knife and twisted it out of its binding.

"Crap!" He was very quickly losing the battle. When his wrist was caught he slid his hand back through his sleeve and the true chill of the night hit his entire upper body. Without his coat, however, he was more loose and limber and so even though he was now weaponless and nearly naked against the cold he managed to hold his own, ducking under another strike and even landing a kick. But he had to end it. If he took another hit now, without that fleece padding, it could be fatal. He worked his way back around to the spear and slid his good hand into his pocket.

It was all about timing.

He flicked his lighter over his mitten at the tip of the spear and the lighter fluid he'd doused on it caught on fire at once. The wendigo reacted to the sudden flame, but Dean didn't slow for an instant. He pulled his stake from the rocks and aimed straight for the creature's heart.

He missed. His own momentum carried him forward, right to the slippery rocky edge of the shore. It hissed in triumph, in feral glee.

Dean turned around just as it jumped on him.

The stake drove into it, the fire burning deep into its chest.

And then they hit the water.

For an instant, Dean wondered if the creature would still continue to burn up or if the water would stop it. Then he realized it probably didn't matter because there was no chance he was going to survive this.

Fast waters pulled him under and it took everything he had to break the surface again. When he did the air he managed to gasp in was instantly driven from his lungs again when he collided with a rock and then he was underwater again.

He got fleeting impressions of the moon, the stars and then nothing but frothy, icy water as he was hurled along the churning speedway.

Then it stopped. He came to a standstill in the water, his flannel shirt pulling tight at his neck.

"Dean!" Hands reached under the surface to haul him the rest of the way out. He vaguely noticed the river was calmer here then he felt the broken rocks of the shore under his hands. He collapsed when he was let go, choking violently, but he was given no reprieve.

"DEAN!" The slap snapped his vision back to clarity, it stung against frozen flesh. "If you don't get out of those clothes you'll die!"

"Dad..."

"NOW DEAN!" His shirt was easily ripped from him, it had been torn up in both the fight and the river. He couldn't believe how cold the air was on his wet skin but then something heavy and dry fell over him. His father's coat was warm from body heat and Dean instinctively drew it nearer while his father fought with his boots as the laces froze.

In under two minutes Dean was fully dressed in dry clothes, some his father had undressed to give him and others had been extra in the back pack. John frantically ran a cloth over Dean's head trying to get out as much of the water as possible while his son shivered and rubbed his hands up and down his body.

"Keep moving." John instructed when he saw Dean's hands slowing.

"I'm so tired."

"DEAN!" He shoved a hat over his ears and got his arms under him. "Get up!"

Dean didn't. He was hauled up. Once up, he managed to step forward with his father's arm around him. He stopped abruptly, however, when he saw the grey, still form on the shore ahead of them.

"It washed up just before you," John said.

"Is it dead?"

"Yeah. You're first wendigo kill. If you hadn't gotten so lost and damn near killed yourself, I'd congratulate you."

Dean said nothing, studying the form—the first thing he'd really hunted and killed on his own. "It was young, wasn't it?"

"For a wendigo, yes. Probably only turned last year or so, I don't think it ever reached full strength."

"Hence why I'm still breathing."

"I would say."

This was humbling. Dean gave it a last look then continued forward. "How did you find me?"

"I've been tracking you, lost you a few times when it snowed though, don't have Bobby's skill. I saw the smoke from your fire and was headed upriver when you washed down it.

"Good timing."

"Would have been better if I'd gotten to you before you fell in the river."

"Yeah. How much father until we're out?"

"Couple hours."

"What? That close?"

"Yup, but no where near the car, we'll have to hitch a ride, if anyone's crazy enough to pick us up."

They walked on steady. It took longer than two hours with Dean's wounds from the fight and the river. A man with a thick accent and even thicker beard let them in the back of his pickup. They found the Impala where they'd left her, tucked in an old woods road. Dean fell asleep within seconds of the engine rumbling and the heat blasting.

At the hotel he took the longest, hottest shower of his life. When he emerged from the steam, his father wrapped up cracked ribs and stitched up anything that was still bleeding. Dean was relieved to find the swelling had gone down on his face and hand. He was still a mess, however, and he felt like he could sleep for a week. When his eyes started drooping where he sat on the bed as his father patched his hand, John caught him by the shoulder and held his gaze.

"Never do that again."

"What?"

"Get lost like that. I ain't ever taking you proper hunting until you get a sense of direction."

"...sorry."

But the grip tightened. "Even killing a young wendigo is an impressive accomplishment for a hunter. Happy Birthday son."

Dean watched his father through tired eyes, but enough of him was still awake to savour those words, the pride his father showed to him now.

"Thanks Dad."

"Now get some sleep."

"Yes sir." John let him go and he rolled back on the bed, asleep before his head ever hit the pillow.


	2. Without Bail Part 1

**Without Bail (Part 1of 2)**

"Dean?" Sam's voice was fuzzy on the phone and it was hard enough to hear him over the shouting from down the corridor. Dean looked up when a door slammed but met the eyes of the burly man beside him who rolled his fingers over each other indicated he needed to hurry up.

"Uh, yeah, Sam you're gonna need to get in touch with Bobby."

"Why? What's wrong? Are you guys hurt?"

"No, we uh...we were arrested."

"What?"

"We can't handle this one on our own, if you know what I mean."

"Because it's not a backwater police department."

"Yeah."

"Crap."

"Yeah. It's getting pretty serious, so hurry okay? Get Bobby."

"Yeah I will."

"Time's up," the officer warned. Dean nodded.

"We'll be fine, bye Sammy."

He hung up. The officer took him by the arm and pulled him down the corridor. His clothes were still filthy from their hunt which had led them through the bowels of an old apartment building where a ghost had been making friends out of local homeless people. On top of it all, Dean had been knocked around some and came out with a black eye and swollen lip.

But none of that compared to when New York State Police had busted in on them and found them over the bodies of two missing persons and the salted and still smouldering remains of the apartment's old caretaker.

"I'll take him." Someone stopped the officer from putting Dean back in the group cell. He could still see the few people in holding over the shoulder of the officer and he locked eyes with his father.

_Don't say anything_. He mouthed as Dean was steered down another hallway with the newcomer. This man was wearing a grey suit and red tie. He looked more like a school principal than a detective. This observation quickly made sense to Dean when he was sat down and cuffed to the table and the man pulled out a notebook and pen.

"Good morning Dean, I am Dr. Eagles."

"A shrink." Dean said, at once understanding the situation.

"A psychologist, Dean."

"Whatever. Why did they send you to interrogate me?"

"I'm not here to interrogate you. I'm here to hear about your side of the story. I want to know who you are, Dean. We can't seem to find any school records for a Dean Stilton. But then again, that ID of yours also says you're twenty one."

Dean kept his gaze even and didn't say anything.

"I was told it was the most impressive fake ID the department has ever seen. Did your father make it?"

He remained tight lipped.

"Your real name is Winchester, correct?"

Silence.

"By your birth record I see you're barely seventeen. So tell me, what is a seventeen year old doing shooting homeless people in the basement of an apartment?"

"I-" Dean shut up at once, almost falling prey to the ploy but he remembered his father's face and didn't speak. His eyes must have shifted back that way because Eagles leaned forward to interrupt his line of sight.

"It's okay Dean, you're father won't know what you say. We won't be putting you back together in a cell, please speak freely."

"I don't have anything to say without my lawyer."

"You don't need a lawyer with me, son. I'm trying to help you."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm crazy?"

"No, I think you are being indoctrinated by your father, and I think he is very unwell."

Dean slammed his fists into the table as much as his restraints allowed. "Don't say that about him. We're not crazy!"

"Then you're murderers."

"We didn't kill those people!"

"Then who did? The body you dug up out of the basement and burned after performing a black magic ritual on it? We found the book, your father's journal, it's full of rituals and spells. Is that what he's taught you Dean, how he raised you?"

Dean didn't speak. He felt overwhelming anger at the way this man spoke of his father, and spoke of things he didn't know anything about. But he also felt a buzz of nervousness like he'd never felt before. This was a large, state of the art department, it might not be possible for them to break out and it would take Bobby time to finagle a way to have them released. What if they sent them straight on to a penitentiary?

"Dean are you alright?" He hadn't noticed how tense he'd gotten. He relaxed and let out a long breath. "Dean?"

"I'm done talking."

"But you haven't even started. How about we start with those bruises on your face. None of the victims had defensive wounds—they didn't strike back. So what happened? Did you tell your father you didn't want to be part of his blood bath? You have scars, how long has he been beating you?"

"SHUT UP!"

"How long has he been forcing you too kill? Telling you demons are real? He told you a demon killed your mother—son you must realize-"

Dean's chair clanked back against the floor. He stood despite the strain it put on his cuffed wrists. His entire body was rigid in anger but he didn't scream. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the psychologist.

"I have one last question for you Dean. It's the most important one." Eagles stood slowly, eyes ever on the teen. "Where is Sam?"

Dean just watched him.

"Dean I want to help you, but if you won't let me save you, then how about your brother? You're his older brother, you want to protect him right? Well then you have to tell me where he is, so we can keep him safe for you."

"You leave Sammy out of this."

"Where is he, Dean? Is he alone?"

"Just leave it."

"I'm afraid I can't. We have to find Sam, he could be hurt or alone or-"

"He's fine."

"Then where is he?"

"I'm not telling you."

"Why not? Is this really the life you want for your little brother? Controlled by that man out there? Risking his life, hurting people?"

Dean went quiet again. He turned his eyes away from the man. He heard a sigh, then the door opened. He hadn't caught the look of satisfaction or the curt nod given by the psychologist—hadn't realized what he'd revealed in his body language.

"What's going on?" Dean asked when his cuffs were removed from the table and two officers took hold of him.

"We're moving you somewhere else, for your own safety."

"Wait, what?" Another nod, they took him out of the room. The psychologist made quick notes but looked up to the one way glass where he knew the real interrogators watched and listened.

"The brother is the key. He obviously wants to protect him. He'll give up his father for him."

"Good." Came the static voice. "And Dean himself, is he a lost cause?"

"Pretty far gone, but he might have a chance if he spends the next decade in an institution." He stacked his pages and rose. "Now then, let's meet the source of the delusion." But he heard shouts down the hallway and hurried out to see what was the matter.

"They're taking me somewhere else." Dean was shouting to his father over the clamour of men restraining him. Fresh blood flowed from his nose, it looked like he must have broken free just so he could inform his father of what was happening. Now his hands were cuffed tight at his back and two men drug him away from the group cell.

"It's okay Dean, just don't get yourself in worse trouble." John pressed against the bars. Dean met his eyes, but instantly lowered them the moment he realized they betrayed his true panic.

"Got it." He managed out before he was hauled away. The psychologist watched the whole interaction before turning to John.

"My you've warped that boy."

Dark eyes turned to him and for a moment the doctor lost his words. Under that gaze of pure loathing he found himself shaken and took a step back.

"What did you say to my son?"

"The truth about you."

This brought a smile as dark as those eyes. "Truth huh? I wonder what you'd do if you ever had to face it for yourself."

The bars parted, officers pulled John out and took him toward the interrogation room. For once in his career, the psychologist gave pause, not sure this was a case he wanted to crack.

* * *

"Sam Winchester is a second minor involved. If he was travelling with them, he could be in town, and alone. We need to find him for his safety and the safety of others." The lead investigator informed his team.

"Wait, do you mean you think the boy is also trained like this one?" The speaker glanced through the one-way glass at Dean who sat uncomfortably slumped over the table-but after nearly twenty four hours of interrogation he'd take any rest he could get.

"Yes," the lead confirmed. "We simply don't know what he'll be like, what we do know is we need to find him. The father hasn't cracked down in the other department either."

"Damn, I didn't think this Dean kid would be so resistant."

"He's been fed delusions since before he went to school, starting with the night his father murdered their mother. We won't be able to dispel those beliefs in a day."

"Fine, then let's start on day two."

Someone stretched and moved toward the room. When the door cracked, Dean stiffened. He knew what was coming and the man pulled him back to sit straight in his seat, even though he hadn't slept since he and his father had started this hunt two days earlier. He blinked and the room wavered. Good, he thought, pass out, and then maybe one of these bastards will realize they've been bypassing any laws about interrogating minors.

But he didn't pass out, well, not yet, and so they began again. Asking him over and over where was Sam. Then rehashing the list of offences they'd managed to gather up. The first time around it had alarmed Dean how much the police had put together on his father. But now he didn't even pay attention as many of their hunts were revisited, then all the speculations about what cults John may belong to and what horrors he may have inflicted on his sons.

All to try to appeal to Dean either through guilt or a reality check or his love for his brother in order to get him to give up Sam's location.

Dean snapped back when he was pulled straight again. He'd almost managed to fall asleep. He blinked several times to make the room more clear, it didn't help, he just wanted to blackout so they would stop.

Another round ended. The door banged open, someone started talking loudly about Dean's rights. He was pretty sure he didn't have a lawyer so he assumed it was the whole good cop bad cop thing but he didn't pay much attention as he was pulled from the room and led to a cell.

He didn't care that the bed smelled like piss, he just lay down and was out cold in moments.

* * *

"Why'd ya do it?" Dean snapped to consciousness at the gruff voice. It took him a long moment to realize it was coming from right above him.

"What the hell?" He rolled onto his back and found himself staring up at one of the officers. This man hadn't interrogated Dean but he'd been one of the officers to arrest him. Come to think of it, he'd been emotional and none to gentle when shoving Dean face first into a wall. When they'd been processed, this man had just watched in silence the whole time.

"Who are you?" Dean finally asked, unable to rise as the man was flush with the cot and leaning over him.

"Shut up!" The punch caught Dean off guard. He sputtered and tasted blood. When the second came he felt his heart quicken—this wasn't good, cops couldn't do this, this man was off his rocker and he had Dean trapped.

"You killed Paul and Jess. She was my wife's sister, and he was my best friend!"

"Shit!" Dean lurched up and tried to get away. He knew what the outcome of this would be if he didn't get out now. But a third strike kept him down and then there was a fist in his hair, a knee on his chest-

"HEY!" Dean heard the shout but he couldn't see. The man was letting loose on him in a wild flurry of hard fists. He couldn't escape the hold and by the time enough officers came to haul him of he could barely breathe.

"Damn it Gerry!" They ignored Dean's sputtering as he rolled onto his side and coughed up blood. "You'll lose your badge over this!"

"Crap the kid's in bad shape we'll have to call an ambulance."

"We do that and Gerry's tanked."

Dean stopped coughing and looked up to find all eyes on him.

"What?" He challenged, heart racing under his bruised ribs, body growing hot with anger even as it swelled with bruises. "WHAT?" He shoved up and off the bed despite the way the room spun and everything hurt. "We didn't kill those people! We tried to save them you assholes and now what do I get for it? What do we ever get for it?! Nothing but shit! Just sons of bitches like you who haven't got a clue what's really out there! Dumb cowards who sit around playing hero while they let us do all the work for them." He took a gasping breath, not having realized how thin the air seemed to be. He wobbled and grabbed a bar.

"Get Gerry out of here," someone said. Dean watched two of the men haul him away. He continued to stand and stare at the remaining officers. The one who had spoken stepped into the cell, right up to Dean and leaned in.

"You're one messed up son of a bitch," he began. "You killed a couple because you thought they were some science fiction crap."

"I didn't—"

"SHUT UP!" The nightstick rang against the bars with a harsh clang and Dean felt the impact vibrate through the metal and into his hand. "Now then, when our chief gets wind of what happened to you, he's gonna put Gerry on probation, maybe even cut him loose. We can't have that."

"Then he shouldn't have beat the shit out of me."

The stick slid over the bars and trapped Dean's wrist against the metal shaft. He hissed in pain at the pressure, knowing how easily it could break that multitude of tiny bones.

"If Gerry is gonna go down for this, then I'll make sure it's worth it." The words came out so low. Dean found no retort. "Or, you promise me you say nothing and you'll get off easy."

"Screw you."

"Fine."

Dean lurched and collapsed when the stick collided with his leg. It hit his calf and enough of the impact was absorbed in the muscle to spare his bone but in the moment it was little consolation and he couldn't hold back the cry that came as he crashed to the ground.

"Reconsider?"

Everything in Dean wanted to fight, but he wasn't going to win this one and he knew it. He was already in so much pain. He shook on the ground.

"Last chance."

"Fine." He spit the word out, never looking up. Everyone was watching, his face burned with anger and hurt pride.

"Good." The man pushed his stick back into its holster. "Come on boys." He shut the door behind him. They all filed down the hall and left him alone in the cell.

Dean didn't move from where he'd fallen.

* * *

**_To be concluded in part II._**


	3. Without Bail Part 2

"So the report says you attacked the officer who tried to bring you your meal. It took three of them to restrain you."

Dean didn't look up at Dr. Eagles. His face was tight with the swelling and most of him hurt to move. Still they'd dragged him into this room and chained his hands through the table and Dean was just waiting for the real questioning to begin again.

"Last time I checked it doesn't take that many hits to restrain a person."

Dean still said nothing.

"What really happened son?"

"Just get on with it already." He slumped back in his chair as much as his restraints allowed.

"Alright then." The doctor sighed but he didn't begin questioning Dean. He dropped a wad of papers on the table before him. "After your outburst and our findings, it's been decided you should be moved elsewhere."

"What, again? Come on, this is ridiculous, when do I get to see a freakin' lawyer or-"

"You don't need a lawyer son."

"What?" Dean straightened and took in the papers that had splayed over the desk. "You need a doctor."

"Wait, wait, wait." Dean yanked against the chains as he made a grab for the pages.

"You need help Dean. You're father will go to trial but no judge will take your case until you've been evaluated."

"You've got to be joking me. You're sending me to the looney bin?" He'd read enough to get the gist. "I'm not crazy."

"Dean, your Father's put terrible things into your head. Sam's too. I'll ask you one more time, where is your brother?"

Dean eyed him. So that was it, that was their last ploy? He narrowed his gaze. "You saying if I give him up, you won't send me over the coocoo's nest?"

"No son, I'm afraid that's not on the table. But it sure would help your case if and when you ever do see the judge."

Dean sank back against the chair. "Prick."

"We're just trying to help you."

"Yeah, I know how you feel." He dropped his head. "I'm starting to think it wasn't worth it."

* * *

"Gerry, hey, you were supposed to go home and sleep it off."

Several men were in the locker room at the end of their shift when Gerry stumbled through the door. He was drunk.

"Hey, what's that?" Another officer approached him, seeing the object in his hand. "Shit you took that out of evidence!" he exclaimed, seeing the couple's wedding rings as well as a third one, charred but intact that had been lifted from the old body. "Gerry you're gonna mess up this whole case!"

But then everyone stopped short, feeling an icy chill settling on the room. One man stopped shaving when the mirror became frosted over.

"What the Hell is going on?"

He ran his hand over the surface to clear it. "SHIT!" He dropped his razor when he saw the bedraggled man standing just over his shoulder.

Then the screams began.

* * *

"What did you give me?" Dean rubbed his arm. They'd taken him to a private room, doctors had come to give him an evaluation before deciding whether or not to really move him. He shook. He told himself it was whatever drug now coursed through his system, but he wasn't really sure. It had been too long, Bobby should have gotten them out by now. That suit and tie and fake badge never failed. But what if it had this time? What if he really did get shipped off to toonsville?

"Just relax."

"This is ridiculous," Dean said again. They'd forced him to shower and change into lose fitting clothes that looked way too much like a hospital patient's outfit for Dean. Then they'd checked him over, but Dean was pretty sure they were less concerned about his recent wounds and more about old scars and bruises. He knew what they were thinking, and it enraged him. They all thought his father was crazy, abusive. How dare they, they had no idea the hero he really was.

But his anger yielded to the tingling feeling spreading over him. He felt tired but not like he was going to fall asleep. He understood, it was for the safety of the doctors and when they asked him to sit he found himself complying.

"Dean, tell us what happened in that building."

He stared at them.

"Dean."

He let out a breath. "We didn't kill that couple."

"Then who did?" Silence.

"Why did you dig up that body? Why did you burn it?"

Silence.

"It's because you think it was a ghost right? You think a ghost killed those two and you saved them by burning that body."

Dean couldn't help react.

"It's okay, the investigators told us what they found in that journal—that and much more. So tell me Dean, is that what you really think happened?"

"I think you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

"So it's true."

"Screw you."

"Tell me is that what you really believe, or do you know you're lying?"

"Give me a break."

"You do, don't you? You actually think you and your father were doing the right thing." Dean remained silent and looked away but apparently there was no winning.

"But that's not what happened Dean. You've created a parallel reality, in which you and your father are heroes instead of serial killers. Where he teaches you how to save people rather than to hunt them down and kill them. Where he loves you instead of-"

"SHUT UP! You don't what you're talking about! I wish it all was in my head! I wish all we had to deal with were freakin' humans and not every damn thing that crawls out of the dark. Trust me, making this up would not be an improvement on reality." He hadn't realized he'd let them get to him. He'd stood and he found his breathing erratic. Whatever they'd given him made it hard to concentrate. He couldn't believe he'd just said all that. He'd just admitted to his belief in the supernatural. He sank back onto the chair. The doctor waited, watching him.

"Dean," he began again. "There was something more in that journal. Something about the demon that killed Mary—your mother, correct? Is that when this all began? Is that when your father started telling you about all of this?"

"What?" Dean shook his head but the answer was clear.

"You were four when the house was broken into, right? Your father didn't get there in time. She was murdered, the house burned. He was left with two little boys and no one to blame for the crime. So he began his hunt for vengeance. Maybe he killed her in the height of delusion, or maybe he really is chasing her killer, but you have to see the reality here, son. You aren't chasing a demon, you're chasing a widower ex-marine's delusion created in the height of grief. And you've been doing so for thirteen years."

He stacked his papers and stood.

"So I think it's safe to say you are not fit for trial and you're certainly not fit for the real word. I'll arrange your placement at once."

Dean watched him cross the room. The doctor got to the door before the teen snapped out of it and lurched up but he was caught by the attendants and could do nothing. The doctor looked back at him as he opened the door.

Then they heard the terrified cries for help.

* * *

Alarms blared down hallways and strobed off the walls. A secretary was hustled from her desk to a safer area. Officers raced to gun lockers. A paramedic in the building stood over three wounded officers in the locker room and tried to make out the fourth form that had once been Gerry.

"It can't be." Dean shook his head, knowing such panic could only be caused by supernatural creatures. "We burned its bones."

The doctor looked sideways at him. They'd dragged Dean from the room in a panic to evacuate but now more frightened screams in the directions of the exit had forced them into the swell of people in the main office.

"Dean is this something to do with your father? Are there others who might come to get you out?"

"What? Don't blame this on me!"

"Son of a bitch does he have something to do with this?" It was the officer who'd threatened Dean earlier. He moved toward him but the doctor intervened.

"This boy isn't the one you need to worry about officer. Who's causing this panic? Is it a gunman?"

The officer shook, never tearing his eyes away from Dean.

"No one saw anything."

"Or they don't want to admit to what they saw." Dean shot over the doctor's shoulder, not helping his situation.

"SHUT UP!"

"What d'you take? Did you lift something from the body?" Dean thought this over. "Evidence, dammit! You took some evidence didn't you?" A soul could be tied to an object and not just bones after all.

"A ring..." The voice came from their side and Dean saw a pale officer holding gauze against his ear, blood dripping down his neck. "Gerry had a ring..."

"What did you see?" Dean demanded.

"Nothing." The other officer intervened and grabbed the bleeding man's arm. "Snap out of it Dave."

"No listen Shane I saw it. It came out of no where it-"

"You friggin' brought the ghost back here," Dean muttered. "Great."

"How do we stop it?" The man named Dave asked.

"Get with it!" Shane grabbed Dave roughly. "You gonna let this kid mess with your head? Someone's killed an officer and here you are playing into his sick fantasies."

"But-"

"Get a friggin' gun and try to defend these people." He shoved him away.

"A gun won't help, unless it's filled with rock salt," Dean provided.

"You..." Shane took a grip on his collar and this time the doctor couldn't intervene. The men let him go with a nod from Shane. He dragged Dean forward.

"You tell me right now who'd bust in here for you."

"Come on, your own man's admitted to it. It's a friggin' ghost and it's pissed."

"Fine, we'll just draw them out by giving them what they want."

"Wait, what?"

Dean was shoved beyond the confines of the office and into the main lobby.

"Get out here you sons of bitches if you want your friend so bad!" Dean hit the tile hard when the butt of the officer's gun met his skull. The room wavered, he raised a hand and felt the blood oozing from his hair.

"You've lost it," he groaned, knowing the officer was openly violating his boundaries.

"Shut it." He served a kick to Dean's gut. The teen sagged further against the floor, already in pain from the earlier abuse he'd taken. But his breath hitched when it came out it fogged along the tile and frost crept in thin lines over the smooth surface. "Crap."

"What the hell?" The officer spun on the spot with his gun in hand. Even after berating his fellow he could hardly deny the temperature drop or the feeling of the presence in the room.

"The ring..." Dean pushed his hands against the floor and got to his knees.

"Shit what was that?"

Dean felt the sudden rush of wind and knew the ghost was circling them. He was having trouble focusing, knew the officer had probably given him a concussion.

"Ack!"

He saw the blur of motion this time then officer Shane was on his back. His gun went off and Dean instinctively dropped back flat against the tile. Something shattered on the far wall. There was another cry then three more shots and then strangled breaths. Dean brought his head back up to find the officer on his back: the ghost from back in the abandoned building was choking him to death.

"Shit." He struggled his way up to his feet and looked around for anything iron or salt. "Crap." His eyes landed on the lobby desk and a sculpted paper weight that looked to be as old as the building itself. He couldn't tell what metal it was made of but he decided to test his luck. He ran back toward the pair and swung the heavy ornament at the ghost's back.

It let out a powerful shriek. Dean began to laugh in triumph, but it only writhed and flickered before whirling on him. In one strike the paper weight was rolling away. The next would end him.

"Dean drop!" He obeyed the command even as the ghost made its deadly swing. Not a second after he hit the tile rock salt filled the space where he'd just been standing and the ghost dissipated.

"A ring in evidence." Dean began saying even as he was being hauled up. His father looked exhausted, he'd probably been through the same long hours of interrogation as Dean.

"I'll get the ring." It always made Dean do a double take when he saw Bobby so cleanly kept, hair combed neatly and dress suit buttoned over his growing belly. But this time he blinked more for the drugs they'd given him than surprise.

"Dean." John brought his attention back around. He could probably see the poor focus of his eyes, but all Dean caught in his father's face was anger.

"Dad?"

"Those sons of bitches." He let go of his son and stood, eyes zeroing in on the sputtering cop who was still recovering from the ghostly attack. "You let these bastards beat you up, Dean?" His foot came down hard on the officer's stomach. Dean watched him carefully, for once unable to predict his father's mood. First of all, he hadn't _let _them do anything to him, and secondly, he wasn't sure where all of this was going.

"Dad...the spirit will come back." "Bobby's on it. Tell me what happened here." He was looking at the clothes they'd dressed Dean in, the bandage on the inside of his elbow...

"Dean!" He demanded an answer. Dean remained silent, staring up at his enraged father.

And for just one second, he saw it.

He saw the picture Dr. Eagles had painted. He saw the madman who'd torn their family apart. He saw someone who'd grown so accustomed to violence, he couldn't shut it off, not even here in the middle of a police station. And so for just that one instant, Dean felt like he was four years old again, staring up his home burning to the ground and his father eyes as he held Sam in his arm—sorrow, yes, agony and despair—but more than anything in those eyes, had been fury. It had been the most terrifying moment of his life.

"DEAN!" Dean pitched forward and tasted the salty tang of his blood in his mouth. He'd only busted his lip against the tile and the echo of the gun told him his father had just saved him from worse. There was a shriek of rage, the spirit must have avoided the salt because Dean felt the chill of its presence rush over him on its way to his father.

"Dad!" The shot gun clattered away and John was lifted from his feet in the cold grasp of the lost soul. No air got past that tight fist and the other transparent hand drew back in preparation for the final strike. "DAD!"

But before Dean could make a run for the gun, the creature dropped his father with one last hollow utterance, its cry died as it turned to ash before them and they knew Bobby had destroyed the ring. John took a few gasping breaths but he didn't take much time to recover and his hand went to his belt, withdrawing his gun.

"Dad..." Dean stood now too, watching his father take aim at the officer.

"The world is full of monsters son," John spoke without facing Dean. "Some are from the other side, like that ghost, but some of them are just plain old human."

Officer Shane didn't speak, but shook where he sat, seeing the seriousness in John. Behind them the doors parted, Dean spotted Eagles and the other doctors, he saw the officers who'd been in his cell. They'd seen it all, through the thick glass doors that separated the lobby and the main office where they'd been hiding. None of them could deny it now. Bobby was among them, out of breath and stashing his lighter fluid back in his coat pocket but he came to an abrupt stop at the scene.

John was far away, the officer before him a representation of so many others who dismissed what they did, who got in their way, who committed evil themselves under the guise of good.

His whole hand shook where he stood.

"John-" But Dean waved a hand at Bobby to cut him off. He knew his pseudo uncle had gotten his father through some of the worst times in his life, but Dean was the only one who'd been there through it all, since the beginning. Dean had grown up with the violence, the rage, the sorrow and the mood swings. He alone watched John's mind stray for hours at a time while speeding down highways. Even when he was just little he had recognized the change in his father when he'd come back from a violent hunt, sunk in a chair with a hollow gaze. And he had given him silent comfort. So now, though it was on Dean's behalf that he was angry, son met father before the watchers and simply pushed his hand down.

John kept his eyes locked on the man for a long moment but shoved his gun back under his belt.

"You don't deserve his mercy," he said simply before turning and putting a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Let's go."

They turned to go. No one stopped them. Even in the midst of New York's finest they walked free, because they'd all be awakened to the truth. Dean wished he could feel smug when he caught the look on the doctors' faces, but instead he just felt cold in the pit of his stomach. Bobby scooped the dropped gun from the floor and followed them out. He seemed just as shaken as the spectators.

"You okay, Dean?" He seemed to have realized it was best not to address John who went around to the back of the impala and stowed his weapons. Bobby was taking in Dean's wounds and clothing.

"I will be."

"Why don't you come back with me, we'll meet your dad-" "No. Thanks Bobby, we'll meet you and Sam back at yours."

"...right."

"Dean." His father waved him over and gave a nod to Bobby. The other understood and headed back to his own vehicle. "What did they give you?" He pulled his son's arm out and looked at the bandage over the needle mark.

Dean shrugged. "Sedative or something. I'm fine."

"You're a mess."

"Hey, you don't look great either." He smiled. His father didn't smile back.

"Dean."

"Yes?"

"You were scared, weren't you?"

Dean tensed. He didn't answer right away and when he tried it was too late. John shook his head, Dean couldn't see his eyes so he didn't know if he was disappointed or angry. But then his father clapped him on the shoulder and headed around to the driver's seat.

"Come on, you can sleep off the drugs on the way to Bobby's, you look like you need it."

And just like that, it was over—all the stress and fear of the last day, and then everything Dean had felt building in his chest during the fight. He stood there a moment longer, not sure he could do it, not sure he could get in the car and act like everything was okay after what he'd just been through.

He was a freak, an outcast, and so very, very alone, even if his father was in the seat right next to him.

The impala rumbled to life. He took a steadying breath and caught his father's eyes on him.

It was time to go, time to man up and push it down. So that's what he did as he crossed the front of the car. When he reached the door, his breath was calm. When he opened it, he was shoving down all those doubts and fears, when he sat, he forgot the panic he'd felt when he'd been pinned under that officer in the cell. Instead he hung onto the anger at his ignorance, his arrogance. He clung to the faintest sense of satisfaction at having proven him and all of them so very wrong. And when he looked to his father his eyes were even, maybe even just as hard as John Winchester's himself. And he forgot what he'd felt when he saw his father pull the gun on the police officer. He saw instead the man who'd saved him, raised him and trained him. And he was proud.

Because being like his father was all Dean could ever hope to be.

* * *

**Next chapter, Dean gets a break-literally, when his father sends him out to investigate a missing person-on the sunny beaches of Florida during Spring Break. Bikinis, beer and maybe even a girl make it Dean's favorite case of all time.**


	4. Spring Break Part 1

"Best case ever," Dean beamed under the Florida sun but met the stern gaze of his father when he rounded the hood of the Impala.

"If you aren't going to take this seriously then I'm sending you back to the motel with Sammy."

"What? And miss out on all the Spring Break chicks?"

"Dean!"

Dean caught himself, seeing genuine anger starting to creep into his father's eyes. He knew it had been a stretch for his father to let him come along and not stay behind and protect his younger brother, but since Sam was no where near the descriptions of the targets, John had allowed Dean to join him. The teen straightened and nodded. "Sorry sir."

"Better. Now then, the paper said they were all young men, all from out of town."

"So they had too much to drink, stumbled off a pier or something?"

"Exactly. If you were a monster looking to feed, wouldn't this be the perfect opportunity? Easy picking when everyone is drunk at night, and then even easier cover up as everyone will think the same as you."

"Huh." Dean considered this. "Smart."

"Very. The only clue we have is the fact that similar disappearances took place not long ago further up state. Only stopped about a month ago. Now we're seeing the same pattern here."

"Any clue what it is?"

"None so far, so watch your back."

John stuffed his papers back into his folder and opened the trunk for his suit jacket.

"I'm going to see what information I can get with a badge." He pulled something from his pocket and handed it off to Dean who grinned at the fake id. "You go see what you can get from the sources themselves. Here's a list of the vics and the colleges their attending. Try to find their friends and hear what they think happened."

"Yes sir," Dean said a little too excitedly. John grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Do not get drunk, Dean. You have a perfect opportunity to get a side of the story I can't. I'm trusting you on this."

"Of course, I've got it."

"And don't you become one of the victims either, you fit the profile after all."

"I won't, I swear."

"Good." John let him go. "Meet up at the motel later."

"Okay." He stepped back from the car and John rumbled away down the packed streets of barely dressed young people. Dean pocketed his id and waited until he was sure his father could no longer see him in the rear view mirror. Then the widest of grins spread over his face and he looked up at the sunny sky.

"Thank you."

* * *

It wasn't hard to spot them—the only sombre faces in crowds of sun-kissed, intoxicated youth. Dean swirled his warming beer in its plastic cup as he approached the group with down turned faces on the board walk, the sands beyond shimmering in a heat mirage even though the day was drawing to a close. He drank back the rest of his beer he'd been nursing and took a seat next to the young girl twirling a ring that dangled from a chain around her neck.

"Hi, I'm Dean."

"Back off, asshole," Someone bit out before she even looked up at him. It was her group of friends, two girls and a guy—it was the guy who'd spoken. "Does she look like she wants some jerk to try to pick her up?"

"What? No, that's not why I came over, I just-"

"Do you know something about Jimmy?" The girl before him asked desperately. She had devastatingly large brown eyes, their depths intensified by the sparkle of fresh tears. Her hair was blonde, bleached even lighter by the sun. Dean had to remind himself he was on a case. James Croft was vic number three and the most recent. He met her pleading eyes.

"Well I actually was wondering what happened. My buddy's been missing two days and I can't help think it's related."

"You were friends with one of the other two?" So they were aware of the pattern. "Please did you see anything?"

"Nothing." Dean pretended to remember a wild night. "We got separated in the crowds, you know? I kept thinking he'd turn up hung over but now...what about you?" "Jimmy—my boyfriend—we were together all night until...well I had a few too many and I was sick. I ran into the bathroom. When I came out I couldn't find him anywhere."

"Was he drunk too?"

"Everyone was."

"Did you see anything strange?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Dean tried to play it cool and shrugged. "I dunno, anyone watching him or anything?" "I didn't see, why? Did you see anyone watching your friend?"

"No, I was just wondering. How about how he was acting? Did he seem off?"

"He seemed drunk."

"Hey dude, what's with the twenty questions?" the guy asked.

"I'm just trying to get answers," Dean said but stood. "Sorry I won't bother you anymore." He made to walk away. His wrist was caught. He had to suppress his smile.

"No wait, I want answers too. Please." He turned back to her tear-filled eyes.

"What's you're name?"

"Clarissa."

"Dean."

"Dean, can we go somewhere and talk?"

"Clarissa-"

"It's okay Brian," she said to the guy. "I'll meet up with you later."

Dean nodded to the guy in the least threatening way he could think to do and followed her down the beach where it was less crowded, though the constant blast of music from several directions meant there was no where really quiet to go.

"How about you just tell me about the night, everything you can remember, even if you don't think it's important."

"Just like the police," she commented, but she didn't seem suspicious. "Okay, if you think it will help."

"Anything might help."

Dean returned to the motel after having walked Clarissa back to her friends. He barely greeted Sam before sitting down to make a detailed list of notes of everything she'd said for their father.

"I want to see the party," Sam complained.

"You're too young."

"So are you."

"Come one Sammy, don't ruin this for me, my first case with alcohol and chicks in bikinis." He relished in just the words despite the face his brother made. "Tell Dad I met with the girlfriend of one and I'm going to find the others, there's what I've found out so far."

"What, Dean, it's already eleven."

"Yeah, the party's just getting started." He winked at his brother and hurried to the door.

"Dean!"

"Later little bro!"

* * *

Dean could taste the sweat in the air at the night club. The beach at least had the night sky and fresh air to keep it a reasonable temperature but in here must have been pushing forty degrees and it was well past midnight. The base vibrated through his chest, his ears couldn't pick out any words past the thunder of noise. He finished off another drink and came to a stop. He'd nursed it, like everything else, just for show. As much as he wanted to abandon himself to the throes of wild, reckless youth, join the crowds and let himself be just as free as all these suckers—he was on the job, and he had to remain clear headed. If he didn't, he was sure his father would send him packing back to Bobby's or put him on babysitting duties again.

So his eyes were clear, though the room was dense with a fog machine. Strobing lights bounced off the droplets and the crowd of moving bodies became a technicoloured landscape and there was no telling up from down, left from right.

Dean sighed and made for the exit. He took in great gasping breaths from the outside. He had actually never experienced anything like this before, and though some part of him was excited by it all, felt a thrill of youthful desire—the hunter in him detested the crowded space, the lack of exits, it was a set-up for something to go wrong.

"A little too much for you in there?"

He started at the voice. He hadn't even noticed the small blonde approaching him.

"Clarissa." He pushed off from the wall where he'd been leaning.

"I'm the same," she said sympathetically. "I can't stand the crowds after what happened."

"Mm." He watched her shiver, despite the heat.

"I just can't shake the feeling the person who took him is still out there, planning their next strike."

She and Dean had concluded earlier that they were certain someone had attacked Jimmy and the other victims. Clarissa had only mentioned someone "taking" them, whereas Dean couldn't help wonder when he would stumbled upon body parts.

"Wait, what are you doing out here anyway?" Dean asked her. "After I spoke with you today I thought the party is the last place you'd be."

Her eyes shot up to his and he was struck by their ferocity. "I'm not going to sit around and do nothing like Melissa and Brian."

"You're friends."

She nodded. "They've still got each other. We came down here together, like a couples trip, you know, but now I'm the one alone. So I'm the one who's out here looking. I mean, obviously you're doing the same thing."

"Yeah, I just-"

"What, you think 'cause I'm a girl I'm just going to sit in my hotel room and cry?"

"No of course not." He played innocent but couldn't help the way her steel gaze made him want to smile. "Though I've gotta say you aren't like most chicks."

She actually managed a smile past her pain and anxiety.

"So what do you say we work together?" he offered.

But she shook her head. "That would be counter productive. We need to spread out, cover more area. We can meet for breakfast on the beach, compare notes."

"Ah, yeah, sounds like a plan."

"Alright, good luck." She moved past him down the board walk toward other bars. Dean watched her go, feeling for once like he was not the professional. And definitely feeling like he was quickly falling—head in the direction of his heels.

* * *

"Is that coffee or beer?" Dean swirled the cheap brown brew he'd ordered from a shack along the beach.

"Let's just say I wish it was beer." He tipped the rest of the bitter brew into the sand and rose to meet Clarissa. She had her own tall brew in hand, though it didn't do much to take the utter exhaustion from her features. She took the lead, walking down the trash strewn boardwalk, quiet now after one wild night.

"I got nothing," she admitted and began pointing to the different locations she'd covered. "Lots of guys leering at others, but no one I could point out as particularly suspicious."

"Same," Dean admitted, "so many creeps in the crowd I couldn't pick out the psychotic ones. But I was thinking, in all that commotion, how would you grab a guy against his will and take him off somewhere without anyone noticing?"

"What are you saying, they had an invisibility cloak or something?"

"What, no, I mean maybe they went willingly."

"What's that mean? Jimmy wouldn't have left me."

"Are you sure about that? If he was drunk he could have been lured off somewhere."

"To do what?"

"Buy drugs. Gamble. Anything that people didn't want advertised. It would be a good ploy to draw him and the other vics off, get them alone and out of the crowds. Did Jimmy like anything like that?"

"NO!" She was offended, "he would not have left me to go do drugs or play a seedy poker game!"

"Alright, sorry." Dean waved his hands in surrender. "I'm just stabbing in the dark here."

Her face blanched, he realized he probably shouldn't have used that term. "Sorry."

She shook her head and played with the plastic tab covering her coffee. "Don't be, at least you were coming up with a solution. What about your friend, would he have been drawn off by any of those things?"

Dean momentarily forgot his cover of being friends with one of the vics. Then he caught himself and shrugged. "Nah, he's a straight shooter. It was a bad theory. Where are your friends, the other two? I'll walk you back to your hotel."

Dean walked her right to the lobby of the resort that was packed full of young people. He stepped over a forgotten book bag and spotted a mess in one corner. Apparently the hotel staff couldn't even keep up with the madness of Spring Break. For a moment he took it all in, and for a moment he sincerely wished he was here to get drunk and party with young people and not investigate the disappearance of three men.

"Dean how old are you?" He hadn't realized he'd spaced and her voice drew him back around. They were at the elevator waiting for it to work its way down.

"Huh? Twenty-one, why?"

"Nothing, you just...look kind of young for your age."

"Thanks." He pretended to be offended but just hoped he could pass himself off as being her age.

"Sorry," she smiled. "I guess I'm just tired."

"No worries. Get some rest."

"You too." The elevator chimed and the door parted. He waved her off and when the doors shut he was left with his own haggard reflection. He slogged back out of the hotel and made the long walk back to the motel that was far from the beach front hotel where everyone else was staying. He was ready to face plant on his bed. He got to the door just as the Impala pulled in. John stepped out with a fast-food breakfast in hand.

"Oh good, you're back, you can come to the coroner's office, the first body was found."

* * *

"What is it, bring your kid to work day or something?"

The coroner gave Dean a critical look in his suit and parted hair. John wore a much less formal outfit, a tweed over a t-shirt and jeans but he also had the beard and age to make it look more convincing.

"He just looks young, this is actually his second year working under me, learning from the best, aren't ya kid?"

"Yeah," Dean answered dully.

"Well the Feds must be recruiting straight out of high school then," the doctor muttered but didn't question them further. He drug the tray out of the freezer and exposed the pale young body there.

"Gary Hughes, the first of the three to go missing." The coroner informed them.

"Cause of death?"

"Yet to be determined. It's a strange case, but I'd say we got some sort of pervert on our hands."

He indicated the raw marks around the man's wrists and ankles. He'd clearly been bound. The other thing he showed them were bite marks at his neck. They were messy, it was hard to count the punctures.

"Some goth sex thing maybe," the coroner speculated.

"Any drugs in the system?"

"Tox screen is still being run. I'll get back to you on that." He shuffled his papers. "I'm actually heading to the lab now unless you have any more questions."

"Thanks." John dismissed him and got to work. Dean watched with a queasy stomach as he poked and prodded the body.

"See this discolouring," John lifted a lifeless arm. "that means he was sitting when he died, the fluid pooled here. And see how the chafing is only on the back of his wrist? I'd say he was tied to an arm chair, and then he died in it. They must have dumped the body last night." John paused and then smiled. "What, squeamish son?"

"No," Dean lied.

"You'll have to get used to it. As you get older you'll be able to pass yourself off as an agent without me. Then you'll have to examine bodies by yourself. Here, look at his fingernails, what do they tell you?"

Dean forced himself to draw closer to the body, and clenched his jaw as he picked up the cold hand to get a closer look.

"Nothing," he said.

"And what's that tell you?"

"He didn't fight back."

"Good."

"You think he was lured?" Dean set the hand back down and stepped back from the body.

"It's a good chance." John nodded. "Unless they were drugged, but we don't have the tox yet."

"But if they were lured out and left willingly it would explain why no one saw anything _and _why there was no resistance."

John snapped off his latex gloves and dropped them in a trash with a small smile. "Very good Dean, you may be cut out for this after all."

Dean grinned and pulled off his own gloves. They met the doctor but only got the promise of a tox screen to come in a few hours. Dean was about to say he was ready to crash but when they got back to the Impala an officer was waiting for them.

"Oh good I caught you," he greeted John. Dean assumed they'd had dealings earlier. "I just got the report—a fourth student has gone missing."

"Fit the profile?"

The officer nodded and handed over a photocopy of the description. "Male, twenty one, went out with his friends, didn't come back."

"How long has he been missing?"

"Don't know, just that he left his wallet with a friend when he went to take a leak behind a bar, never came back."

"Okay then, sounds like us. I'll see what I can find out."

"His friends are at the station if you want to talk to them."

"Yeah sure, can I catch a ride?" He tossed the keys to Dean and gave him the photocopy. "Check out the scene."

"Yeah, sure." Dean watched him get in the cruiser and pulled at the collar of his shirt. It was already boiling hot. As soon as he was out of sight of the department and heading back toward the beach he changed out of the restricting clothes, though he had to admit his beach attire was just as foreign to him as the suit. He liked his layers, in which many weapons and tools could be stored. Dressed in beachwear, he just felt naked.

Or free.

He parked at the end of the boardwalk and made his way back down the now familiar stretch of beach from which all of the victims had disappeared. He pulled the photocopy out and quickly identified the bar and grill indicated. It was a smaller joint and one look at the overflowing toilets and Dean knew why the guy had gone out back to take a leak. He stood in the loose sand that had built up in the rear of the building, careful not to step where no doubt tens of teens had relieved themselves. He stood facing the wall, then turned to looked back to the beach, hoping to see through the eyes of the victim and figure out where an attacker might be lurking.

There was nothing. Just open beach between the back end of this establishment and the surf. But what he did determine when coming back around the side of the building was he was smack dab in the middle of the locations of disappearances. He read the signs of the beach bars and more elaborate night clubs where the other vics had last been seen. Was it possible they'd all come here rather than wait in line or risk a filthy bathroom? Had they all been caught with their pants down?

It was as good a theory as any, and he knew how he could prove it—he fit the profile, so tonight, he would wait to be taken.

* * *

_**To be continued next chapter! Thanks for the positive reviews to the other stories, I love to hear feedback!**_

_**Riza**_


	5. Spring Break Part 2

"Where is he?" Dean paced in front of the air conditioner. Sammy was on the bed watching a history program. Dean had gotten a couple of hours sleep then showered and prepared himself for a night of beer, breasts and acting as bait. The only flaw to his plan was that he intended for his father to have his back. When whatever it was came for Dean, John would be there to stop it. But he could only do that if he came back to the motel and touched base. He was lousy at his new cell phone and every time Dean called it a voice said "out of service" and he knew John had forgotten to charge it again.

"He checked in when you were asleep. He's fine," Sam assured him.

"Right..." Dean hadn't told Sammy of his plan in case his brother worried, but he really would have liked to have been woken up so they could have discussed tonight. It was dusk, Dean was quickly losing his hours of operation.

"Okay I'm going," he announced finally. "Tell Dad to call me as soon as he's back, okay?"

"Why, what's up?"

"Nothing I just want to hear about the tox results," he lied. "That will really influence what we're looking for."

"Oh." Sammy looked at him like he knew he was lying.

"Night bro." Dean ignored the intentional stare down and ruffled his kid-brother's hair on his way out. He took a deep breath once he was back in the heat. "You got this Dean." He felt deeply invested in this case, and he told himself it was professional pride, and nothing to do with the blonde he hoped to meet again on the beer soaked sand.

* * *

Clarissa found him in the crowds as if she'd been looking for him. In fact, Dean was certain she had been by the way her face lit up almost with relief when she spotted him and cut through the masses to get to him. He had been avoiding her—sort of. He didn't want her to be around when he made his way to the pissing shack, but he couldn't deny the surge he felt in his chest when he saw her making her way toward him. He'd just make sure to shake her before anything dangerous happened.

"You've found something," she said at once, those sharp eyes seeming to pierce right through him. She crossed her tanned arms over her stomach and waited for an answer. He tried not to look down at her thin cotton tank that didn't leave much to the imagination.

"What, no," he said reflexively and realized he'd probably just sunk himself. Her face turned into a scowl.

"Don't lie to me! You know I have as much at stake here as you do!"

"Hey calm down." He tried but to no avail.

"What is it?"

"It's...just a hunch, nothing really."

"Spill."

"Fine," he sighed and glanced back up the beach, away from the beach house grill. "I heard rumours about some shady stuff behind the 'Lime Sherberts.' Over there. She looked back over her shoulder at the cool treats stand."

"You're still lying. Dean, I thought you understood how serious I am about this. If you aren't going to help me, I'll go it alone." She shoved past him. He told himself to let her go but something (probably hormones) got in his way and he'd caught her arm before he realized.

"It's thin," he began.

"I'll take anything at the moment."

"The grill over there, it's a good place to let out a leak without being seen by the crowds. And it's central to the all the places where the other people disappeared."

Her eyes went wide and she glanced between the bar where she'd admitted to getting sick in and the shack. They were close.

"Jimmy probably came out when he knew I was going to be a while. No one could have seen him back there from here. You think he was grabbed there?"

"Yeah."

"But then, how would they get him somewhere? There's nothing but open beach or the boardwalk. Once they left behind there, there would be no more cover."

Dean wanted to add that it would be possible if Jimmy left willingly, but he didn't say it knowing her reaction would be harsh. "That's what I plan to find out tonight."

"What? You're going to go back there aren't you?"

"Only way to find out the truth."

"Then I'm going with you."

"No you aren't."

"Yes I am! If you think I'm going to sit on the sidelines and-"

"Clarissa," he interrupted. "You can't go with me because you don't fit the profile. It was only young men taken, and they were all alone. If you go with me, the person doing this probably won't make a move."

"Oh," she calmed. "Then I'll hide and watch."

"They might see you."

"Dean, Jimmy was no push over, he was a hell of a lot bigger than you."

"Thanks."

"What I'm saying is if he was overpowered, you will be too, and then I'll be left alone again, and you'll be gone just like Jimmy. I'll find somewhere to hide, I won't let you do this alone."

Every instinct screamed at Dean not to give in to those blazing eyes, but he couldn't help that he smile or that his hand came up to squeeze her shoulder.

"Looks like there's no talking you out of it. Okay, let's do this."

* * *

Dean stumbled over to the shack, gripping the grimy back wall with one hand while trying to undo his zipper with the other. He ignored the fact Clarissa was hiding in watch when he pulled out and took a long piss against the side of the building.

Though he was pretending to be intoxicated, he was stone cold sober, and his ears and eyes were sharp, waiting for the predator. What did come to him when he was doing up his jeans again, was not we he expected.

"Hello handsome."

She had long dark hair swept back in tight pony tail, highlighting high, angular cheekbones, painted in a rosy shade that was clear even in the dark. Her lips were equally vivid, plump and red and she pulled them back in a wide smiled. Her belly top barely hid sizable breasts and daisy dukes were about the size of underwear.

Dean had to force his teenage mind into a calm.

"Hey," he slurred.

"Interested in a private party?" She beckoned him with a slender finger. Dean's mind raced, trying to guess what she might be. Was it possible she was just a hooker or a drug dealer? He took his chances and crossed the sands to her.

"Where to?"

"This way." She took his hand and firmly led him behind a row of beach bars and then down a less used path heading back into the main city. The beach was left behind and they moved down a dark side street. Dean's eyes raked over her body, but not out of lust, he was looking for any signs of the supernatural. He was starting to think he really had just met a prostitute.

"Where are we going?" he asked again when he saw thy were headed for a heavy door at the end of the alley.

"Just a little farther." But he halted when they got to the door, knowing if this was a trap, it would be much harder to escape once he crossed that threshold.

"I can't wait baby." He pretended, grabbing her wrist to pull her to a stop. "Here's good enough."

"Not for me." She pulled back and Dean lost his grip on her. He saw the edge in her eyes and tensed. "I hate having to carry my food."

"Shit!" He swung but she was faster and he hit the brick wall with stunning force. Blood erupted from his nose and her hand kept him pinned.

"Oh well," she purred in his ear and clamped down on his neck.

"Crap." He swore and threw an elbow back. It was a lucky shot and got her in the neck, enough to get her to back off. "Vamp?" he questioned, feeling a pang as he'd never seen one before and wasn't sure how to deal with one but she just smiled and shook her head as she wiped the blood from her mouth. He pushed off the wall but staggered, just now feeling the affects of the bite.

"What did you..."

"A paralytic," she explained. "I think enough got in to slow you down." His knees gave and his hands hit they grimy alley floor. Beside them the door opened and he saw a second woman lean out.

"Right on time," she smiled. "Oh, he's not out."

"Help me get him in." The girl grabbed his arm and was soon joined by her partner. They easily forced him through the door and he fell back to his hands and knees when they released him in the abandoned room. It looked like a store room for one of the surrounding buildings, but old and unused. Mould painted the corner of the room where Dean's hazed eyes had fallen.

"He is a handsome one, and young, lots of vitality in him."

Dean struggled to stand but a fist caught him off guard and next thing he was being shoved into a chair. His mind wandered back to the body in the morgue when she began strapping down his wrist, and he wondered if this was the chair the stiff had died in. His head lolled, he was still fighting the venom in his blood, but he caught a pair of pale faces next to him.

"Welcome to the party brother." One of them muttered, he was still awake, though restrained. He looked terrible, pale and bleeding from the neck, crimson panting the large crucifix he wore. He was a big guy though and since the other shaking victim was paler and smaller, he guessed he knew this one's name.

"Jimmy?"

"Yeah." The guy seemed surprised.

"And Doug?" He remembered the name on the photocopy this morning. Though this guy looked much more shaken, he also looked a shade livelier than he fellow, so he must have been the most recent victim.

"Y-yeah." Victims number three and four—Dean guessed number two would be showing up in the morgue tomorrow morning.

"And you?" Jimmy asked.

"Just another sucker like you two."

"Just too hot to resist," Jimmy commented. Dean said nothing, but couldn't help think of Clarissa.

"There." The woman had finished strapping him in. She hadn't noticed how he'd kept his fists balled tight so that when he relaxed his hand he'd have some slack to manoeuvre out of the restraints. "So tell me kid, why did you think I was a vamp?"

"I don't know, how 'bout the fact you bit me." His vision was wavering between dark and over bright. His head was killing him.

"What I meant, is why the Hell do you know what a vampire is? You're a hunter aren't you?"

His eyes narrowed. She stepped back and looked to her partner in alarm. "He's too young to be alone. There's probably more."

"Don't look at me," she said. "Ask him."

The woman turned back to him and in her anger her eyes turned bright blue, her irises to thin slits. Dean strained his aching brain when her hand fisted in his shirt and she came eye level with him.

"Who else is hunting us?"

"Vetala," he whispered. "That's what you are, right?"

She hissed in fury and let her hand fly. His head snapped back and he tasted fresh blood.

"Tell me who you're working with!"

"You are vetala...but I thought you worked solo," he muttered, remembering an old case of his fathers. Huh, he'd have to update that journal of his.

"Shut up smallfry and tell us who you're working with." Her hand came to his neck this time and choked off his air. He strained in the hold and felt his heart rate skyrocket.

"Enough." The other ordered and he was let go, choking. "It's too risky to keep him around, just kill him."

"Fine." Dean's hair was grabbed and his head was forced to the side. "Now wait a minute-"

"Nighty nighty, junior."

"STOP!" The door banged open and before the vetala could chomp down Clarissa burst in on them. Both vetala turned on her, hissing and crouching to attack.

"Clarissa!" Jimmy cried out. Her eyes turned to him but then the nearest monster struck out at her and she fell back on the floor.

"Damn it!" Dean flattened his hands and tugged back, forcing them under the ropes with the slack he'd ensured. He bolted to his feet and despite the lingering effects of the venom got his hands on the nearest of the monsters and drove his foot into her kneecap. She screamed in agony and collapsed. He moved quickly to the next which was trying to get its maw around Clarissa's throat.

"Bitch!" Dean kicked her as hard as he could to dislodge her from Clarissa. He was still off balance, however, and the move toppled him as well. The monster rolled onto him and he wasn't strong enough to hold her back. Those fangs drove into him again, but only for a second. A metal pipe collided with the creature's skull and she rolled away again.

"Damn," Dean croaked, no venom had gotten him but her fangs had torn his skin and he felt the hot wash rushing out.

"Dean!" Calrissa dropped her weapon but he shoved her back when she tried to help him. "Silver," he urged. "We need something silver to kill it."

Clarissa looked bewildered but then the monster came back at them again. Dean shoved Clarissa away and took the brunt of the blow, but managed to roll with the punch and pull the vetala along with him. They rolled over the floor several times before Dean came up on top and came down on her with a head butt. The room spun. She chuckled and grabbed him around the shoulders, pulling him back to his feet as she stood.

"Such a feisty one." She smiled. "I wish I could have enjoyed you a little longer."

"Screw you."

"In your dreams kid."

She moved in for the third time but when she did Dean saw Clarissa at her back, holding the heavy cross necklace that Jimmy had been wearing.

"Give it to me!" He found a last surge of adrenaline and brought his knee up into the monster. They broke apart for just an instant, just long enough for Clarissa to toss it to Dean. He caught in his left and drove it up sharply just as the monster dove on him. If it hadn't been for her own momentum, he probably couldn't have gotten the cross wedge deep enough to reach the vetala's heart. But as it was, the monster hissed, flailed and went still. He withdrew the necklace and let the creature drop.

"NO!" the other yelled where it was immobilized by its ruined knee. "Bastard."

Dean panted and Clarissa helped support him. He looked down at the necklace and then to the creature.

"You might not want to see this," he warned her, but she shook her head. "They're monsters right? Not human?"

"Right," he confirmed.

"Then do it."

He nodded and she let him got to stagger toward the other vetala. Dean couldn't say he relished in killing something while it pleaded for him to stop, or how it took three agonizing tries to get the small piece of silver deep enough to kill. But when it was done, and he was panting in exhaustion and Clarissa moved back to him and helped him stand.

"Thank you," he gasped out. "We'll have to get rid of this." He held up the necklace covered in blood.

"Good, it was my anniversary gift to him." Her eyes lifted to her boyfriend.

"Clarissa...?"

"Oh come on Jimmy, I saw what she did to lure you here! You left with some tramp while I was throwing up in the bathroom of some seedy bar!"

"Hey, I was drunk-"

"Oh come off it you jerk, you saw an easy lay and you went for it."

"Come on, let's just talk about this after we get out of here." He tugged meaningfully on his restraints but she made no move to leave Dean's side.

"I don't think so."

"You can't just leave us here!"

She looked to Dean. "I have a partner, I'll call him to come clean up."

"Good. Then let's go, Dean."

"Clarissa!" They left Jimmy shouting at their backs. Dean called his Dad, surprised to actually get through to him. John gave him the go ahead to leave the scene and patch himself up. Dean was relieved and joined Clarissa back out on the street.

"I'll take you back to your hotel room," he offered.

"Okay."

"Sorry about Jimmy."

"I wish I could say I was happy he was alive." She slid her hand behind Dean, he wasn't sure if it was to help steady him or not.

By they time they made it back to the hotel, Dean was near fainting. She convinced him to let her clean him up. She did a careful job of cleaning and patching the wound. He thanked her and made to rise from the edge of the bed but she pushed him back down. "Wait." She still had the damp cloth and pressed it to his collar. "There's still blood I haven't cleaned up."

He stilled as she washed along his collar, then lowed, unbuttoning the light cotton shirt he'd bought at a stand to help blend in with the summer crowd. She worked the cloth down his chest with one hand while the other slid the shirt from his shoulders.

"I can feel your heartbeat," she commented and dropped the cloth along with all other pretences as she pressed her hand over the left side of his chest.

"So can Is" he admitted breathlessly, since all he could feel was his pulse pounding in his veins.

"She called you a hunter. And you knew what to do. Is this your life Dean, hunting monsters?"

He just nodded.

"Then you're a hero." She leaned in closer. He swallowed hard when her hand slid from his chest to his hip. "But you're also a liar."

"Wh-what?"

"You're younger than you're letting on, aren't you?"

He hesitated.

"It's okay Dean, just tell me, is it your first time?" He was still silent but it brought a smile to her. "You have such an innocent look for someone who just killed two monsters."

She leaned back and pulled her tank top over her shoulders. Then she took each of his hands and held them up to rest against her bare waist as she settled on his lap.

"Kiss me Dean."

He did. The exhaustion and pain from earlier disappeared in the heat of her body, her gentle touches and the excitement that stole all control from his body. They rolled back on the bed and lost all sense of anything beyond themselves. And for a few hours, Dean was just a teenager doing what all young people do in the throes of youth, on the sunny beaches during Spring break. And even though he caught flack for not returning straight back to the motel; even though he had to say goodbye to Clarissa with one last kiss in the hotel lobby—it was all worth it.

It was, the best case ever.

* * *

**_Next time, Sam and Dean have to return to a place Dean had hoped never to go again-High School. _**


	6. Sr Freshman Part 1

"What? I don't want to go back there."

"Come on Dean, you might learn something."

"Nothing important." He shoved his fists into his jacket pockets and scowled at the ground (he knew better than to do so directly at his father).

"You don't have an option. Besides, someone needs to keep an eye on Sammy."

Sam ignored the fact he was being used to appease Dean's foul mood. The teen continued to stand with slumped shoulders but cast his eyes back at his younger brother.

"Fine."

"Good, you're already enrolled, you start tomorrow."

"Great."

High school. Dean would take monsters and mayhem any day of the week over sitting through eight hours of meaningless information and opportunities for humiliation. He caught the smile on Sam's face and felt a burn of anger—maybe even jealously—it didn't seem to matter how many times they stopped and started school, Sam always picked up the work quickly and got good marks. Dean had used to like being the badass new kid, but he'd outgrown that, now he just found it tiresome to go through the whole process when he knew it would never serve him any purpose—and he didn't like feeling like an idiot too much either.

"This case might take a while, you boys take care of each other okay?"

John gave Sam's shoulder a squeeze, then lifted his eyes to Dean as if to say _suck it up._ Dean watched him leave without so much as a goodbye.

"Great," he said as soon as they were alone. "I should be on the case with him."

"Sorry," Sam said quietly, knowing their father usually left Dean behind when he wanted Sam protected.

"Don't, it ain't your fault, I think Dad's actually worried about my education," he scoffed and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. "You think he'd know if I didn't go?"

"What? There's no way you're staying here and watching porn all day while I have to go to a new school."

"Fine then I'll just watch porn while you're here." Dean reached for the remote emphatically.

"DEAN! Gross, you're so disgusting."

"Come on, don't tell me you've never watched while Dad and I were off hunting."

"I haven't!"

"Sheesh, I started when I was-"

"Dean I don't want to know!"

"Fine." He dropped the remote. "Watch yer cartoons or whatever, I'm gonna relax before I have to deal with all that shit." He dug in his pocket and dropped a coin into the box next to the bed labelled "magic fingers." Sam watched him shut his eyes as the bed buzzed to life. He took the remote and searched around until he found the news.

It was going to be a long few days with just him and his brother.

* * *

"Where are your books?" Sam asked as they walked the stretch of highway between their motel room and the school John had enrolled them in.

Dean glanced at the backpack Sam had, full of books other things for school.

"What do you mean? It's the first day. Where did you get all of that anyway?"

"I always take this to school." Sam eyed him. "Man, you've been on alot of hunts lately, when _was_ the last time you went to school?"

"I don't know, before Christmas I think."

"Sheesh, well let me know if you need help." Dean whacked his brother in the arm but when he walked into class and stared at the complex formulas on the chalk board he felt a little less anger toward his kid brother. He sat in dumb silence the whole class, watching kids his age transform numbers into things he didn't even recognize. Normally he'd shove his hands in his pocket and make eyes at the prettiest girl in the class but he couldn't help but be struck by how far behind he was in education.

"It doesn't matter," he muttered to himself as he put a lock on his new locker. "Stupid shit ain't gonna help me kill monsters."

"Problems?" Sam was right next to him. He half jumped in surprise. He wasn't used to being in the same school as his brother, but John had lied on Sam's form to bump him up a grade so he and Dean would be together. Dean knew John wanted them close—he was hunting a pack of skin walkers and they could be very dangerous. They could also sneak in anywhere so it was best the boys remain close.

"Nah I'm fine," Dean lied. "What about you squirt? How's your first day of high school treating you?"

"Shh, Dean it's not supposed to be my first day, remember."

"Yeah, yeah, cool it, I know." But he glanced around. No one was close enough to have heard. "Lunch?"

"Actually I'm meeting a girl from my class." Sam looked to the floor.

"What? You've only been here like three hours."

"Yeah well I'm just taking a page out of your book aren't I?" Sam defended and hoisted his bag up onto his shoulder. "See you at the bell, okay?"

"Yeah, whatever." Dean slammed his locker shut more forcefully than intended. He wanted to be happy that his brother was having a good time but he couldn't. He sat sourly through afternoon classes, wondering who in the Hell Plato was and why he should care. Several students shot him sideways glances, curious about his sudden arrival at their school but not enough to ask him. So he went the whole day without speaking to a single one of them. At the bell he breezed out the class and stormed down the front steps. Sam knew enough not to ask him about his first day when he met up with him. They walked on in silence, back along the hot blacktop of the highway toward their cheap motel. Dean cooked them macaroni and beans, his signature dish. Sam watched him and ate in silence.

"What?" Dean finally asked after seeing his little brother's eyes dart up to him several times.

"Nothing it's just...did you have a bad day?" Normally it was Dean asking Sam this question, when he came home with a frown or worse, a black eye or two.

"What? No, why would you say that?"

"Well you don't look very happy."

"I just wish I was hunting is all."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Come off it will you?" But Sam just stared at him with those all too knowing eyes. "Okay fine, I had a bad day."

"What happened?"

"Nothing happened, I just...I don't have a friggin' clue what any of the teachers are talking about."

"Oh."

"Do you? You friggin' skipped a grade so you must be as lost as me."

"Well I..."

"Shit."

"Sorry. It's probably not as hard in grade nine."

"No, you're just smarter than me." Dean shoved his half eaten meal over the table.

"Dean, you're smart too."

"Oh come on, we both know that's not true. But seriously Sammy, how do you do it? I mean, you've been moved around schools just as much as me. How come you can get by and I can't?"

"I just..." Sam stopped himself and it was clear he was hesitant to say what he really thought.

"Spit it out."

"Well, I just didn't think you cared Dean. I mean, you've never really tried have you? You don't care because all you want to do is hunt."

Dean watched him, nodding slowly. "Yeah, that's true but...wait you're basically saying you do care."

"Well yeah I do."

"Why, you think you're going to college or something?"

At this Sam set down his utensils as well. Dean stared at him hard.

"Sammy that ain't an option for us."

"Why not, Dean?"

"Because we're hunters."

"No, you and Dad are, I'm the one you leave behind to do the research. And I'm good at it, Dean! I can hunt down any information and I remember it too! I could go to university, become a lawyer or something."

"A lawyer? What the Hell good would that be? You want to squabble over money or who gets the kids when Dad and I are out there hunting?"

Sam stood. Dean expected him to back down like usual but he saw no sigh of it in hard, brown eyes.

"There's more to life than hunting the thing that killed mom. I've known it for a long time. But Dean, don't forget you were the one who started this conversation. You're upset because you've fallen behind, and the only reason you'd care is if you feel the same way—you want options too—you want a chance to be something more." He gathered up their partially eaten meals. "I'll do the dishes."

Dean watched him go into the kitchen and begin filling the sink. He wanted to shout, to curse, to lay into his little brother, but nothing came, and he ended up just standing there, staring at the one person who knew him better than he knew himself.

* * *

_**In the next (and concluding) chapter, Sam and Dean continue to find their place in high school, but as hunters they find it will be hard to hold onto youthful pleasures.**_

_**Thanks for the reviews thus far,**_

_**Riza**_


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